


None Of His Doing

by Unsentimentalf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unsentimentalf/pseuds/Unsentimentalf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up tied up to his flatmate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None Of His Doing

His head hurts. His joints ache, twisted into awkward positions; he tightens muscles to shift them and nothing happens.

"Don't struggle." Calm, familiar voice; he stops trying to move, tenses carefully, trying to feel.

There is something around his wrists, around his ankles. A blindfold tight across his eyes. He is spreadeagled face down and that gets him close to panic; the unemotional voice in his ear restrains him. "John. Don't struggle." His headache pounds.

He is lying on something, warm, alternate soft and lumpy. Someone. The touch goes up his arms, down his legs. He stretches out face down fingers, meets face up ones which curl around his for a second, let him go. They are tied together, he and the voice. Sherlock.

What the hell?

"What's going on?"

Sherlock sighs, breath warm against his cheek. The man's face must be turned towards him, their heads side by side. "I regained consciousness around ten minutes ago. Someone was administering some kind of intravenous drug."

"Someone drugged you?"

"Both of us. Left arm."

He thinks about that for a moment. He doesn't feel sedated, now that the haze is clearing. In fact he is not as calm as he would like; his heart races intermittently, unpleasantly. He doesn't feel as close to panic as his body is telling him he is.

"Do you know what it was?"

"A stimulant."

Yes, that would account for it. Tying someone up and administering a stimulant seems to John a remarkably unpleasant thing to do. He tries to steady himself, slow his breathing, slow his heartbeat. It doesn't have much effect.

For the first time he realises that they are both naked. He can just feel Sherlock's heartbeat under his own. The air in the room is still and warm.

He twists his wrists, experimentally. Cable ties. Not tight enough to block circulation, easily tight enough to bind him to Sherlock. He tugs downwards- no movement. They are tied to something, their arms outstretched and above their heads.

He repeats the process with his outspread ankles. They, too, are not going to move. A rush of panic again; for a minute it overwhelms him and he yanks hard, futile against the bonds.

"Don't." Sherlock's voice is steady. Too late he realises that he must be cutting the ties into the man underneath.

"Sorry."

He lies as flat as he can manage, trying to distribute his weight evenly. Then he waits for a short while. Sherlock is quiet. Questions are usually pointless; he restrains himself.

Cramp in his thigh. He tells Sherlock so. "I'm going to have to shift slightly." Sherlock makes a small noise of agreement. John is quite a weight; the other man must be acutely uncomfortable. He doesn't apologise for that; it is none of his doing, and Sherlock will not appreciate empty politenesses.

He puts his face down to rest into the mattress beneath Sherlock's head, shifts the only way he can, rolling very slightly onto one side. He feels Sherlock take a breath; his hip must be digging painfully into the man's groin. Then he can stretch the leg, change the muscle alignments. It helps, a little. He rolls back, carefully. Skin glides oddly against skin; he identifies another sensation. Now that he has noticed it, the slight perfume of some sort of oil is evident, the feel of it everywhere between them unmistakeable.

For the first time he begins to understand something of the intention of the person who did this to them. He begins to feel what the drug, what the oil, what the nakedness and the intimacy are doing.

"Sorry," he murmurs again. This too is beyond his control, but he can't help apologising, any more than he can help the pounding of blood from his heart to his groin. It is at least Sherlock, who will know for certain that this is none of his wanting. Still, it is deeply embarrassing to be quite so obviously turned on by his flatmate. Whatever they have used, it is powerful enough to overcome his natural heterosexual inhibitions. His heart is racing again, blood rushing across his cheeks, his skin hypersensitive.

He tries to shift his groin away from the other man's body, manages only to slide over warm, slippery skin. Things are suddenly twice as bad. Also, there is now something else in the way. He has somehow assumed that Sherlock would be far too self controlled to be affected by the drug. It appears that he is wrong.

"Damn," he mutters, vehemently.

"Quite." Sherlock's voice is slightly shaky.

"I guess we stay as still as possible and wait for the effect to wear off." That would not take more self control than he had. Not quite. He wonders how long it will take. Hours; between two and five, he thinks likely, but without much evidence.

"That's one option."

He is relieved to find that Sherlock has other options in mind. Escape seems like a particularly good idea right now, and he says so.

"Escape, unfortunately, does not appear to have a reasonable chance of success right now. I was thinking more of a swifter resolution."

"Oh?"

"We have, I imagine, enough flexibility and lubrication to produce the desired outcome."

John's subverted heart races, even as he shakes his head, face too close to Sherlock's neck, brushing against the softness.

"Sherlock!"

"Someone," Sherlock murmurs, "has gone to a great deal of trouble to make us uncomfortable. I'm not inclined to stay that way for his amusement."

John is not entirely sure of the logic behind that, but he doesn't want to ache any longer, wants to relax into the warm body below him, not remain awkwardly and apologetically perched on top of it. Also, they are both undeniably under the influence of some fairly powerful drug, administered without their consent. He doesn't feel responsible. He doesn't want to start feeling that way.

"Okay." He tries to sound entirely matter of fact.

Sherlock moves, arching his hips, and John tries not to gasp as their parallel erections are crushed between two stomachs. He lets all the tension in his arms and legs go, flat against the limbs beneath him, feeling Sherlock surging underneath him. He thinks maybe he should move, but Sherlock is doing everything necessary and the palpitations are heavier now, taking away his ability to do anything but pant and feel.

His fingers stretch out in desperate want, wrap around Sherlock's long digits, feel the man grip back. Of all the things that their bodies are doing this feels the most intimate. He doesn't let go.

Then Sherlock tilts his head, meeting John's beside him, and a tongue is probing. And that is wrong, John knows; that is more than they'd agreed, more than the drugs demand, but hell, it is good and he lifts his head a little so that he can crush Sherlock's lips below him, send his own tongue exploring the reaches of that warm, wet mouth while Sherlock drives his body up into John's stomach over and again.

When he comes his heart pounds so hard that he thinks, in defiance of all his medical training, that it might actually burst. When Sherlock comes the tension in every whiplike muscle tightens then departs, and the man is a pile of softness under him, for a few seconds, until Sherlock pulls himself back to something resembling human form. To his embarrassment he finds that he is still kissing Sherlock; the man doesn't much seem to mind, but John pulls away nonetheless.

After a few minutes he feels compelled to at least say something.

"Now what?" God, he feels drained, aching, weak. He wants nothing more than to sleep.

"Sleep, then." Sherlock's voice is amused. "We might as well bore our audience. I'll wake you if anything happens."

It is a long way from comfortable, wrists and ankles stretched and starting to feel raw, the blindfold still tight across his face, limbs balanced on Sherlock's, bones digging into flesh, flesh pressing against bone. Still, he shifts down slightly to rest on Sherlock's shoulder and stops fighting to stay awake.

He wakes to a voice, a throbbing head and aching shoulders.

"Now wasn't that fun?"

That voice is entirely familiar. Not a surprise, but it does mean that they are in an unpredictable, acute type of danger. John stays limp on Sherlock's shoulder; the man will know that he is awake, Moriarty might not.

"What was the point of that?" Sherlock sounds bored, but John feels the man's heartbeat speeding up, underneath his own.

"Don't tell me you weren't enjoying yourself!" Glee in that voice.

"In the circumstances that's hardly relevant."

"Oh no, I forgot. You were drugged and helpless." Jim Moriarty thinks this is hilarious. John wonders why.

"I was of course aware of the precise nature of the injected substance as soon as its effects became apparent."

He had been? John suddenly doesn't like the way this conversation is going.

"Oh , you are bad!" Jim is delighted. "You didn't tell him, did you? You are not a nice man, Sherlock. I do like that."

"I didn't lie." Sherlock's voice has dropped, He is talking to John now, whether Jim knows it or not.

"Crap. You let him believe that the drug was responsible." Moriarty's voice sharpens. "I know you're awake, Johnny boy. I'm surprised you managed to sleep at all, with that much caffeine in your bloodstream. But that did look like a great deal of exertion. You and your friend were really rocking."

Caffeine. Sherlock hadn't contradicted the man. IV caffeine would explain the heart palpitations, the hot flushes, the appalling headache. Unfortunately it would not explain the fierce ache of desire, the feel of Sherlock's mouth on his, their mutual messy orgasms.

"It makes no difference. Whether it was a drug or the position, it was still an artificial situation." Sherlock still sounds bored. John feels the small amounts of tension flowing across his body as he talks.

John is not going to take part in this conversation. Jim and Sherlock are arch enemies; he is merely the blogger, and he is still tied face down and naked on top of his flatmate. But he can still have opinions, and right now his opinion of the man beneath him is very low indeed. Moriarty knows that. Moriarty is amused. He hears footsteps, feels fingers pressing around his wrist, a needle slide under the skin, the cold of something flowing into his vein, and blackness.

He wakes, fully clothed, unbound, in an alleyway. Sherlock is slumped beside him; he seeks a pulse, urgently. It is steady. Sherlock's wrists are lacerated, like his, from the cable ties. John lifts his hand to the rough and sore area around his temples where the blindfold cut tight. Sherlock has no similar marks; that disturbs him acutely.

They have both had God knows what injected through the needle marks red on his skin, on Sherlock's. He ought to get an ambulance, get them to hospital and a full tox screen. He is not as fond of facts as his flatmate; he simply waits, fingers close against the steady pulse at Sherlock's wrist until he man rouses.

"Do you need a hospital?"

Sherlock thinks about this for a moment, shakes his head.

"Good". He helps the detective to his feet, heads down to the main road where taxis pass. His wallet and phone are still in his pocket.

Back at Baker Street he has a very long shower. The hot water beats down, washing off the oil from his skin, dripping down across the stomach that still remembers how it felt to have Sherlock use it. He stays there until he has stopped thinking of any of these things, then he dresses.

The flat is empty. He wonders for a moment, then his phone beeps. "Barts." the text says.

He has had enough of needles for one day. Sherlock can investigate without him. He tries television but his head still hurts. In the end he puts on a little quiet Mozart and sits in the dark. Eventually he dozes.

Sherlock hits the light switch and John winces. His flatmate seems entirely cheerful, which John feels rather inappropriate.

"What was it?"

"Propofol and caffeine. As I thought."

John thinks about this. "Propofol's reported to be a disinhibitant." As well as deadly in inexperienced hands. He didn't like the idea of having being injected with that at all.

"The evidence would suggest so. But neither are aphrodisiac."

John frowns. "He must have known that you'd detect the caffeine."

Sherlock nods. "That was just to wake us up, I imagine. He wouldn't have expected you to mistake it for an arousal stimulant."

"So why did you let me mistake it?"

Sherlock's voice is matter-of-fact. "If you thought it was merely lack of willpower and your latent homosexual tendencies nothing would have induced you to give in to your desires, or mine. That, I imagine, was Moriarty's intention."

"How," he is trying to stay calm about this, "did Moriarty know how I would react?"

"I imagine that he didn't. I wouldn't have confidently predicted that particular reaction, and I know most of your reactions perfectly by now. But he knew how I would. As long as I was aroused and unable to hide it, and you were unwilling to engage in sexual activity then the likelihood was that the dynamic between us would shift in a negative and permanent fashion."

"So all this tying us together was an attempt to split us up?"

Sherlock flashes his quick smile. "Exactly."

"But actually," and here John is picking his way very carefully, "it turns out that we are both attracted to each other."

"At least when we are tied up together naked. That is the only situation that we have data for at the moment. It is possible that a more conventional and less... exciting situation may leave one or both of us uninterested or unable to perform satisfactorily."

"Yes. Of course." John fights down a small sensation of warmth at the idea of Sherlock performing satisfactorily. "I think I need something to eat."

"Dinner." Sherlock says firmly, "conventionally comes at the beginning of a date. But since we have established that we function well under more unusual circumstances, I think we can probably disregard convention in this instance. Chinese, I think."

He hadn't intended to propose a date. Just to eat.

"Are you intending," he starts cautiously, "to gather more data? Because, no offence but I think you probably ought to check with me first. Because I see what you mean about what Moriarty wanted, and what happened, and what wouldn't have happened if I'd known that was caffeine, but still, it was effectively a lie and I do actually feel quite cheated and definitely manipulated and very uninclined to jump into bed with you."

Sherlock's full smile hits him and he blinks.

"Of course you do. You still have a headache too. Don't worry about that. For the moment all you have to do is eat."

That is possibly the least reassuring thing that Sherlock had ever said to him. Still, he gets his coat, because he is hungry, and he doesn't actually have to do what Sherlock wants, ever.

Even though he strongly suspects, despite this damn headache, that he very soon will.

_  
_


End file.
